It Only Feels So Bad In The Morning, Because It Feels So Good The Night Before: Pal Joey (1957)

It is quite apparent at this point in my month of musicals that George Sidney will be the most problematic of directors, in that his films possess notable issues of misogyny and in earlier films appropriate racism.  At least when it came to Show Boat era could forgive some of the missteps, as problematic as they be and in the later film Viva Las Vegas, the element of teachability for the male gaze makes it considerably more engaging.  Unfortunately, Pal Joey is somewhere between these to and in no way is this a good thing.  It is an absurdly misogynist film that promotes male promiscuity in a manner that is not even remotely ironic or satirical.  It is clear that the film intends to fully embrace the transitional figure of Frank Sinatra as the lead, here a far cry from his wide-eyed second man roll in something like On The Town and while his performance is certainly worthwhile, given the context of his debonair and libertine ways within the film it leads one towards more points of frustration than feelings of positive execution.  Musically, the film is rather exceptional, but that is hardly to Sidney's benefit, as both the earlier mentioned films also possessed great music, one by a popular musical powerhouse and the other by the duo who is perhaps most synonymous with musical theater and film.  Under the veneer of all these problems could very well lay a great film, but without a context of knowing irony that emerges in works like Funny Face or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers the attempts at humor and endearing misogyny fall flat and manage to affirm patriarchal principles in a musical space that is already suffering from heteronormativity in a wild and inconceivable way.  I think the greatest tragedy of the films is that it could have been the musical equivalent of a Hitchcock film, particularly with some of the more surrealistic bends the film takes in the back half and only doubly so with the inclusion of Kim Novak in the cast, but wherein the psychosexual tension at play often obscures clear gender norms in the great auteur's work, here it is yet another device that does not hit its mark with any sense of intent or clear message.  Pal Joey suffers from being far too narrow in its ideology and focus.

Pal Joey begins with the title character Joey Evans (Frank Sinatra) being tossed onto a train out of town after a revelation that he was caught in a room with a woman, who just happened to be underage and the daughter of an influential politician, thus setting into motion his own relationship with a narrative wherein his philandering ways, as incredibly troublesome as they may be, become  point of narrative connection between viewer and subject.  Joey, returning to his old stomping grounds attempts to gain a job as a lounge singer, immediately meeting up with not only some of his former lovers, but various big shots in the entertainment industry, some of whom he has less than stellar relations.  The former fling Vera (Rita Hayworth) is particularly interesting to Joey's past as he recalls her from his time as a a singer in a burlesque club, wherein Rita would perform various stripteases, a revelation, Joey manages to make real during a high end charity dinner, using the power of money and philanthropy to get the hesitant Vera to recreate her former self.  This act, while initially frustrating to Vera, does cause the two to begin a rekindling of their relationship, but when another young artist named Linda (Kim Novak) enters the picture, Joey migrates towards her ingenue stylings and general impressionability.  This movement of affections on the part of Joey, leads to Vera throwing herself at Joey in figurative ways, both agreeing to sell her club and even marry Joey if he will agree to stay with her, however, Joey chooses to pursue a life with Linda, one that involves them opening their own night club together, although in its initial inception, Linda is less than pleased with the idea and allows for the overly optimistic Joey to travel to Sacramento alone.  Eventually, realizing her own equal feelings for the singer, Linda follows Joey.  Joey the constant trickster attempts to ignore the advances of Linda, pretending to be over desiring her affections, but he eventually gives into her and the two are shown walking hand-in-hand in the closing moments of the film.

This film is decidedly frustrating because it places the burden of the failed relationships not on the philandering Joey but on the respective women of the film, even going so far as to visually suggest that it is understandable for Joey to want to navigate between a use of both bodies, because they are both things to be looked at and objectified.  For Vera it is in the classical fixed camera sense, where her burlesque is done in a more theatrical styling, whereas Linda's involves constant and frenetic zooming of the camera to add a haptic feeling to the relationship between looking and desire that is to be appropriated both to the viewer and to Joey.  Essentially, the film is positing, through these various gazes that Joey is being masculine and is privileged to choose between either, or both if he pleases and it is wholly the responsibility of the respective women to deny or deter such possibilities. If either of them fail to do so, at least as Sidney's film suggests, it is not to be the fault of Joey, indeed, the film almost laughs at his mishaps, even when the appear to be nothing short of statutory rape.  I knew from the opening moment of the film that it would be a bit of a bumpy ride, when after being tossed on the train for his near sexual encounter with an underaged girl, the film throws in a knowing comedic look by Sinatra and enough slapstick musical cues to make Billy Wilder roll over in his grave.  George Sidney, is clearly going for comedy, but it is comedy that is entirely constructed from a place of privileged pretense, one that affords indifference to the possibility that rejecting the love or misusing any love that is accrued by Joey could have very dire results for the respective women, particularly when they are asked to become vicious towards one another over a man who, in all likelihood, will continue his philandering only moments after settling into his new relationship.  While, Joey's mock refusals are to be taken lightly in the closing moments of the film, they too show that he could step away from such a relationship with equal levity, moving away and towards the things he desires in a way equally frenetic as the camera work of the film.

Key Scene:  Rita Hayworth's musical number is quite provocative, rather humorous and one of the only real saving graces of this film, but this can be chalked up entirely to the performance and not the work of the filmmaker.

Only This Much Shadow Left: The Day I Became A Woman (2000)

I am going on the record as saying that were I afforded an unlimited amount of time, brain power and ability to master an understanding of cultural mores and language that I would wholly spill my time into understanding all things related to Iranian cinema.  While it is not my primary focus or even one of my sub-research interests as I become more invested in my academic endeavors I am quite certain in my assertion that it has produced some of the best films in the past two decades, hovering almost entirely around the wonderful offerings of Abbas Kiarostami.  However, he is far from the only director working in the country and others have produced keenly meta-cinematic works that manage to consider the state of identity in Iran both on a literal and metaphorical level, all lending in some degree to the impossible, yet perfect, blending of the realist and allegorical tradition of this countries cinematic output.  I adore these works, A Moment of Innocence and Close-Up being two notable works, however, upon the discovery that there existed a film by an Iranian woman that had achieved equal status demanded its being sought out, or more accurately introduced to me by a professor, and the result was nothing short of an evocation on art and the nature of the self when it is in contrast to competing notions of what one should do in a society whose history is a maddening conflation of contradictions as well as rich and proud history.  The Day I Became a Woman is the poetic and magical work by Marzieh Meshkini and it is nothing short of pure cinematic perfection.  Told in a tripartite narrative, this film manages to cleverly navigate tenuous boundaries of temporal and spatial existence to show that perhaps not everything is as idyllic in a country whose global exoticization, paired with a particularly tense relationship with the "western" world has resulted in a cinematic experience so inherently unique that to place another layer of non-normative identity upon it causes it to take on an ethereal and outright moving quality.  If cinema truly has the ability to move beyond the real into another layer of understanding, The Day I Became a Woman is the backbone to such an aesthetic argument.

Clearly divided between three stories, The Day I Became a Woman begins with the experiences of Haveh (Fatemah Cherag Akhar) a girl on the island of Kish who has just turned nine years old, therefore making her subject to the wearing of traditional chador (Islamic headdress for Iran).  Confused by this demand, enforced by her grandmother and own mother, Haveh simply wants to spend the day playing with her friend Hassan (Hassan Nebah).  While she cannot put off her becoming woman she is able to bargain for an extra hour of play with Hassan that is limited by his having to complete homework, thus resulting in her having only time to share an exchange of a lollipop with Hassan before being placed in the chador and carted off by her mother.  The second story centers on Ahoo (Shabnam Toloui) a young woman who is shown competing in a bicycle race with other woman on the island and while she seems content with simply riding with the pack when a her husband approaches on horseback demanding that she give up racing and return home, the panicked Ahoo continues to ride forward never stopping or appearing to consider giving up.  Indeed, as her husband and other men from her tribe approach demanding that she stop, Ahoo drives forward blowing past all the other women in her race, however, when the tribe gets their leaders involved, including some of Ahoo's brothers, their blocking of the road prevent her from moving forward, becoming a thing in the background of another riders line of sight.  The third portion of the story focuses on Hoora, or Houra (Azizeh Sedighi) an elderly woman landing in Kish in hopes of doing some extensive duty free shopping.  Houra, complete with a series of strings on her fingers to remind her of the items she needs, begins accruing furniture and appliances at an alarming rate, her source of money is confusing to all involved.  Yet when she completes her list, save for one item on her finger which she cannot recollect, she is not quite ready to leave, therefore she sets up her wares on the beach in a sort of house without walls much to the elation of the boys she has hired as help and the confusion of two women who have approached on bicycle, purportedly having just finished the race involving Ahoo.  Regardless, Houra has the boys build her a raft that allows her to float her goods onto a ship in the distance skyline, all the while the newly chador donning Haveh looking on with an enigmatic look that suggests both despondence and curiosity.

Time, space and identity are all clear themes within Meshkini's stunning film.  However, to some degree, these are also central issues in pretty much every film, although uniquely so to Iranian cinema and its bizarre world of hyper-censorship.  I, however, am fascinated with the ways in which Meshkini uses movement to suggest something transitory, if not constantly liminal.  The figures in her film seem to be caught in an impossible space between the world of representation and the reality the viewers are living.  Take for example, the innocent, yet highly sexualized sharing of a lollipop between Haveh and Hassan.  The continuity in this shot is off, but it would appear to be a choice on the part of Meshkini, as the two are now split off from the world, the cutting of the scene never showing the two children (or new adults?) in the same frame, it would break censorship, yet through a stroke of delightful precociousness, the two share in an intimate encounter, overlaid by suckling sounds on the overdub soundtrack that moves between the diagetic and non-diagetic simultaneously.  The two move in impossible ways because to depict them in a normal encounter would be to face off against strict censorship.  Incidentally, even in its cut off manner, censors still suggested that Meshkini remove the scene altogether.  Ahoo's movement is perhaps most evocative, because the constant shots from the forefront of her biking towards the screen invoke the same sense of terror that occurred in Arrival at the Train Station or the Klans ride in Birth of a Nation.  However, what is impending and fear inducing, is instead a shared encounter between Ahoo fleeing an oppressive past and the viewers, assumedly the women encountering the film.  The intercuts of Ahoo's peddling feet and the clomping of horses chasing the rebellious Ahoo suggest a movement both transitionally, but also metaphorically as she becomes animalistic in her flight from illogical oppression, but more importantly, an unseen predator.  Finally, it is worth quickly noting Houra's own movement which is decidedly more aided by the mechanical, whether it be her landing in the space on a plane or the aid of her extended wheelchair/pushcart, Houra represents a figure whose movement is figuratively disembodied and requires the help of others.  Her female identity overlaid by this and a desire to consume all that she never had speaks to immobility of women in the space of cinema and culture in wild and transgressive ways.  Again it is worth noting that the film was made within censorship restrictions, but manages to knowingly contradict them at every opportunity.

Key Scene:  The lollipop scene is seriously one of the most complex of cinematic encounters I have ever witnessed and this is in a film full of visually transgressive commentary.

The DVD transfer is not great, but aside from a Korean region 3 DVD it is the only option and it looks phenomenal regardless.  As such buying a copy is a MUST.

We're Not Lost, We're Just Finding Our Way: Meek's Cutoff (2010)

I first came to the work of Kelly Reichardt via Wendy and Lucy, a film that while not perfect, proved to be a huge step in terms of reconstituting who is afforded the opportunity to occupy the space of a film, particularly in regards to gender.  Furthermore, while it is feasible that I had seen Michelle Williams in a film prior, it was certainly the first major work in which I can recall her performance, especially in its bleak sense of dread and disillusion that has become, to a degree, her trademark.  Meek's Cutoff had been on my "to watch list" upon its initial release and, unfortunately, kept being pushed aside or overlooked for other viewing experiences, yet when I began planning my month of westerns, aside from the obvious classics, this stood out as a necessary work to, especially since it was by a female director and ostensibly stood to revert the genre, an element I am continually seeking in this thirty movie marathon.  Of course, Meek's Cutoff is not a perfect movie, much like Reichardt's previously mentioned film, Meek's Cutoff suffers from spouts of existential wandering and stagnant cinematography that appears to lack an ultimate motive or payoff, yet when the narrative finds its occasional grounding it does so with such an excellent eye and focus that it makes up for many of the emergent issues.  The beauty of this film is not in its execution, however, but in its complete disavowal of the gender oppression which would have occurred during that era.  The idyllic films within the western genre canon, seem set on dissecting every detail as to why male-based rationality and bravery ruled out over feminine "hysteria" and emotions.  Meek's Cutoff demands that a viewer truly consider the likelihood of such blind subservience, particularly in the face of dehydration, starvation and a growing sense of failure.  Otherness becomes less obvious when survival becomes key, although Reichardt is no idealist in this context and furthers to critique to say that perhaps such moments of challenge against authoritative gender norms found direction based on the ability to markedly define a lesser body.  Regardless, Meek's Cutoff, while not an absolutely standout film, nonetheless, takes a genre and considers its prevalence historically as well as within an contemporary and changing filmmaking world.

Meek's Cutoff follows a small band of pioneers making their way through the desolate Oregon Trail in hopes of starting the life anew.  The group includes the stern Solomon Tetherow (Will Patton) and his wife Emily (Michelle Williams) as well as the other couples William (Neal Huff) and Gloria White (Shirley Henderson) and Thomas (Paul Dano) and Mille Gately (Zoe Kazan).  Their lack of expertise on travel requires them to involve the help of Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood) an arrogant and somewhat ruthless guide who appears to lack the knowledge he suggests in terms of navigation.  The group, already drawn thin by lengthy travel, in worsened when discovering that they are running dangerously thin on water, without any assurance that they will find it in the immediate future.  Becoming frustrated by the lack of success, the group, particularly Emily begin to challenge Meek in terms of his authority.  Upon the discovery of a Native American man, played by Rod Rondeaux, the groups animosity towards Meek grows when he violently attacks him for not telling them where to find water.  It is only upon the notion, by Thomas, to barter that the Native man agrees to lead them in exchange for two blankets.  During the continually grueling trip tensions as to the nature of the Native vary from Millie's believe that he is signaling to his tribe for attack, while Emily and Thomas defend his presence, Emily even going so far as to help by fixing his moccasin.  Trouble strikes, however, when the Tetherow wagon rolls out of control and breaks apart, leading to a loss of goods.  Meek frustrated by the Native who begins perusing the goods, pulls a gun on him, which quickly leads to Emily defending the Native.  At this point, Meek's power is clearly cut and the travel continues with equal paranoia and a sense of helplessness, yet when the group arrives at a tree with green foliage all hopes are rekindled, because it suggests the presence of water nearby.  With little explanation or communication the Native simply continues on his way, only Emily notices his movement away as the narrative closes and the credits emerge.

I could talk about the tropes of masculinity within the context of the western and the manner with which this film directly rejects such constructions, but they are rather obvious, particularly with Emily's appropriation of power through the phallic rifle, while still maintaining the domestic abilities that allow her to barter with the Native by fixing the shoe, whereas, Meek is a failed masculine figure in his lack of basic knowledge and failed attempts to bring everyone on board with a backward-looking notion of social constructs.  These things are there in the forefront and decidedly important, but what caught my attention was Reichardt's interesting filmmaking style.  The choice to go digital and reject the widescreen tradition of the western is captivating, especially since she still relies on the wide shot composition for many scene, which manage to still be stunning.  Furthermore, she shoots in natural lighting a choice that makes the daytime images seem stark, the dusk and dawn images mesmerizing and the nighttime shots nearly incomprehensible.  This method of filmmaking, for this genre specifically, is fascinating, it is a choice often reserved for horror films or indie psychological dramas, but has a big payoff here in its consideration of exactly what is so idyllic about the western as a film genre.  Within the narrative Reichardt clearly rejects the sentimentality and traditionalism attached to the era, because it was terrible for everyone involved and doubly so for anyone without a voice or power.  Secondly, aside from a few moments each day the living conditions within the world were far from comfortable.  The near black scenes of night, remove the sort of homely comfort associated with the campfire of the old west and remind viewers that it would probably have been quite impossible to visually communicate in the darkness, while providing pioneers with little to no comfort.  The digital camera only makes the dark even more incomprehensible, instead of possessing the sharp "true blacks" of a strictly film era.  In the matter of less than two hours, Reichardt's film narratively and structurally reconsiders the relevance of the western in contemporary society, unfortunately, its obtuse ending fails to provide any tangible alternatives.

Key Scene:  There is a rather stellar speech about destruction and chaos about halfway through the film that is a highlight from a consistently solid film

This is on Watch Instantly and I suggest checking it out, although it is necessary to come at the film with an appropriate frame of mind, because it is a highly perplexing and philosophical engagement.

Experiments In Film: Fires In The Mirror (1993)

Dealing with a narrative that pits perhaps two of the most oppressed minorities in history against one another in the face of an inexplicable death and subsequently blaming for its occurrence is a nearly impossible thing to put into visual form, considering that it requires a person to acknowledge the multiple voices and interactions and engagements that surround its most heightened moments, not to mention the seemingly irrelevant moments that, nonetheless, factor heavily into the rhetoric surrounding an event well before its initial inception.  All of this is damn near impossible to do with success, and it is certainly only worsened when one attempts to perform all of these identities on their own.  However, for a considerable portion of the early nineties, Anna Deavere Smith found herself attacking issues of race riots, specifically looking at a problematic and fiery riot which occurred in Crown Heights in 1991 following death of a young black boy and a later a young Hassidic Jewish man, in what was allegedly retaliation agains the elderly Jewish man who ran the boy over.  Of course, while much of the film, although to be more accurate it is a video recording of a one person show Smith had put on, seems intent on considering the odds and angers between Jewish and African-American groups uncomfortably navigating the same condensed and oppressive spaces, it is certainly not the only element of the ideology being spouted and countered throughout the film.  Smith constantly moves between race, gender and identity to look at the ways in which political leaders such as Al Sharpton affected the movement, as well as the way in which theories about race and religion undermine the possibility of successfully understanding the misunderstanding that led to unnecessary bloodshed and an equally frustrating riot in a urban subdivision of New York.  Fires in the Mirror manages to be about as bias as possible in its consideration of who really suffers loss in such a situation, while making bold and expansive considerations of the way identity changes and molds itself to fit a moment or idea, much as Smith does within the context of the one person show.

The film seems to embrace Judith Butler's notion of performing gender as being just that, a performance.  Particularly, Butler seemed to suggest that a person could use and remove certain gendered signifiers to help those they interact with better understand their gender in the moment, although even this is rather fluid and subject to change in the matter of seconds.  Smith takes this idea and more than runs with it within Fires in the Mirror, in once scene playing a white statistician, while in another Angela Davis, she even embodies the unconventional role of a Australian Hassidic Jew, all the while creating a narrative of the possible layers to the death of two young people and the dueling riots of two groups who felt they had been victims of an injustice.  One could certainly argue that Smith wants to extend Butler's notion of the performative to add elements of race, class, nationality and even more unusual religious identity, reminding viewers that in most instances common ideals win out and rationality emerges, however, when one finds trouble navigating the liminal space between respect and understanding things can truly become complicated and the moments hesitation when commenting on a disruptive topic can prove fatal, it certainly did in the case of Crown Heights circa 1991.  Of course if this were entirely dramatization one would be hesitant to embrace its masterful quality.  However, Smith does not simply adapt her own play by gleaning from accounts to create an ideal fictional appropriation, instead; she actually embodies the persons she interviewed, going so far as to use their exact words in her play and nothing more.  This seems to occur most successfully with the maternal figures, however, her portrayals of elderly Jewish rabbis and reluctant eyewitnesses are equally powerful and no less captivating  Finally, if this direct approach is not enough, the viewers is also provided with the repetition of images and film from the riots affirming its reality, even if they are watching a beautifully executed simulacrum of the original events.  In the films closing shot, prior to a montage of images, one cannot help but understand that at the root of all the political rage and racial hatred, very real loss occurred and to not give that a voice, even through a simple shot at close would be to do a terrible injustice.

This is a gripping and masterful work and I am ashamed to have gone this long without seeing it, and cannot urge you enough to watch it immediately, to do so, or to find out more information about Anna Deavere Smith, click on either of the images below:

The Voice You Hear Is Not My Speaking Voice: The Piano (1993)

I can distinctly remember viewing Angel At My Table and realizing, as it unfolded in front of me, that it would prove to be one of the most influential and important pieces of cinema I would ever see.  From its highly feminist narrative to the absolutely captivating cinematography, it made me fully aware of Jane Campion and kept it that way even though it would be now some four years later before I would catch up with another one of her films.  Of course, when I approached The Piano I had already been made aware of its critical acclaim, far before knowing that Jane Campion was the director, but for a multitude of reasons had never managed to actually catch up with it.  To describe the film as cinematic, or mesmerizing only captures the very visual obvious elements of the film, which are expressive and key to the overall theme of the film, yet not entirely is brilliance.  Within The Piano, viewers are offered a set of expert performances by a range of actors, whether they be the then well-established Harvey Keitel or the then up and coming (now quite successful) Anna Paquin.  It is also a very elaborate and multifaceted story that manages to be expansive and introspective, without sacrificing linear structure, a dangerous act, when attempting to play to the palettes of viewers who are often not versed enough filmically to follow a filmmaker outside of the traditional stylings which constitute big budget filmmaking.  Fortunately, Jane Campion clearly has no concern for making a narrative simple and accessible, but still possess a certain aesthetic frame of mind that seems transcendent of personal tastes and preconceived expectations, something her films embrace both within her choices, as well as the manner with which her characters occupy the narrative space.  To say the film centers on Holly Hunter's character is an absolute understatement, she absolutely rules and always occupies it, with her stoic silence and piercing stare, it is a film about one woman struggling to assure her voice in a world that she is literally trapped within and expected to act subordinately to a male figurehead with less than respectable desires.

The narrative centers on Ada McGrath (Holly Hunter) a woman who, along with her daughter Flora (Anna Paquin) have found themselves transported to a small island off the coast of New Zealand to be wed to a wealthy landowner named Alisdair Stewart (Sam Neil).  Ada, however, has been a mute for quite some time, occurring after the death of her husband after both him and her were stuck by lightning.  The only sort of expression Ada appears to still possess exists within her ability to masterfully play the piano, which is simply dumped onto the beach of the island along with all her other valuable possessions.  It is during this arrival that Ada meets her husband-to-be, as well as his handyman/translator/land-proprieter George Baines (Harvey Keitel) whose tattooed visage and muscled physique serve as a sharp contrast to the sleek and a bit slithery Alisdair.  Realizing that the piano is far to heavy to move upon arrival, Alisdair leaves it on the beach, much to the frustration of Ada who sees it as an extension of herself, begging George to take her to it the following day.  It is during this trip that Ada simply spends the time playing the piano, at which point George finds himself growing fond of Ada, given her ability to play and the beauty that exudes from her as a result.  Realizing that Alisdair simply desires to get the heavy instrument off his hands, George strikes a deal for land in return for the piano, as well as Ada's providing of lessons.  Ignorant to George's ulterior motives, Alisdair agrees quickly assuming he has earned the best deal.  What follows is a game of bartering between George and Ada where in Ada must trade trip to George's residence for the keys of her piano.  This of course expands from simply being her playing to touches, and eventually to intercourse, eventually leading to the two falling for each other.  This realization enrages Alisdair who cuts off one of Ada's fingers in response, yet when he realizes that she will forever find herself attracted to George and ignore him he gives up and the two are allowed to leave the island.  It is during this trip that Ada demands that the piano be thrown off the boat, at which point her getting caught up in the rope leads to her almost drowning, yet she escapes at the last moment, and her George and Flora are able to start a new life.  Although the narrative voice reminds viewers that the memory of her piano always sticks with Ada.

There are many things to consider as minor commentaries within this film, whether it be the clear statement on property, colonization and invasion of space as it relates to Alisdair and George's overtaking of aboriginal land for their own economic advances, even if George clearly has a respect for the people, his appropriation of their culture only speaks to such a degree about his own engagement in capitalist based oppression as a result.  One could even read this as a sort of masculine competition, a sporting challenge, in which a woman's body is objectified as a result.  In both cases, however, Champion is clearly mocking and satirizing such issues, instead; it is absolutely and clearly a commentary on the feminine obtaining a voice.  Much like Julie Dash's Daughters of the Dust, the film possesses a narrative completely detached from the temporal space of the film.  Whether it be the unborn child of Daughters, or in the case of The Piano, Ada's voice which she has lost much earlier in the narrative, before the film begins.  Yet she still attempts to navigate the space of the film as though she were still very much present, and, to be fair, she is present.  She uses, firstly, her daughter as a means to navigate the space, teaching Flora to deliver statements with a directness and frankness as to be taken seriously, not only to assure her respect when she gets older, but to ground the fact that she is speaking for two people.  Of course, the more important manner with which Ada obtains a voice, is through her piano, its strings representing her vocal cords as she speaks her frustration, her sexuality and her love, in some instances all at once.  The soundtrack for the film serves as a beautiful non-diagetic, and at times diagetic doubling of this notion.  Yet by the end of the film both outlets as replacements for her voice fail and she is left with the realization that she must possess her own voice again, the closing scenes suggesting that she will do so with much practice, always remembering that a failure to do so led to her very near death.

Key Scene:  The staging of Bluebeard is a throwaway scene of sorts, but it is this great metaphor of failed escapism that works on a larger context within the film.

This is an artwork, film at its highest potential, owning it should go without saying.

She Finally Got Harry All To Herself: Attack Of The 50 Foot Woman (1958)

Attack of the 50 Foot Woman is one of those movies that everyone is quite culturally aware of even if they have never seen the film, which was certainly the case for me up until last night, yet I could have identified a shot of a towering woman next to power lines with very little difficulty.  As a B-movie, Attack of the 50 Foot Woman suffers from some absolutely awful special effects, while also possessing some moments of incredibly captivating cinematography and experimentation, a moment involving a crystal ball immediately comes to mind.  Given the title of the film alone, it is really obvious as to why it would be included in this month of women in film blog posts, yet clocking in at barely over an hour, I was taken back by how little of the narrative is focused on the iconic image that every seems to glean from the film.  In fact, for being a film with such a straightforward title, it is ostensibly about a couple of guys dealing with the wrath of a woman, whose vengeance is more than justified.  It is of course a movie from the fifties, and a B-movie at that, it is always a dangerous risk to assume that any film from that era and style is anything but highly misogynistic.  Of course, that is not to entirely dismiss the film, considering that its metaphor on woman uprising against the wrongdoings of her husband, when it does occur, is with such intensity and commitment that its almost as large as the woman to which the title refers.  I would never place this film on the same very high pedestal as that of Carnival of Souls, but I do think that its much better than simply a cult classic and exists as a very key text when considering the depiction of women, particularly within American cinema.  It also manages to keep within the framework of the fear of the unknown, in this case, giant martian aliens, as a metaphor for concerns of nuclear fallout and the Cold War.  Sure a thousand arguments could be made for how Attack of the 50 Foot Woman could have been so much more than what is offered, but to be fair, it also could have been so much less, what is given is considerably revolutionary, if not quite hilarious at times.

Attack of the 50 Foot Woman focuses primarily on a town whose recent visitation by aliens, in the desert at the outskirts of their town, seems to affect little in relation to their daily lives.  In fact, the opening sequence of a newscaster explaining what exactly is occurring in regards to the giant orbs and martians occupying space outside the town, yet, aside from a few passive mentions of it, the townsfolk seem quite indifferent to its existence, instead, spending much more time focusing on the issues and arguments of a popular couple in town.  The two people in question, Nancy (Allison Hayes) and Harry Archer (William Hudson) are constantly at odds with one another, particularly Nancy towards Harry, who is seemingly always attempting to win over the affections of a much younger woman named Honey Parker (Yvette Vickers).  In an attempt to ignore the face of reality, Nancy continually consumes alcohol and bemoans Harry for his actions, yet in his slick ways, Harry always flashes his charm to get Nancy to forgive him in the end.  However, when she returns from a drive out to the desert spouting about seeing a giant green man, Harry believes her to have completely insane and, as a result, drugs her into submissive indifference.  Problems grow, literally, when the drugs Harry has given Nancy begin to react to something in her body, which it is later revealed changed upon her encounter with the martian in the desert.  A series of doctors and nurses come in with the intent of fixing the problem, however, as she continues to grow the efforts fail and a giant version of Nancy breaks from the confines of her chains and begins a quest to find Harry.  The enlarged version of Nancy is so focused in her goal that she begins, unintentionally trampling everything in her path, much to the distress of two hapless cops, until she makes it to the bar where Harry is hanging out with Honey.    Harry attempts to shoot at Nancy to no avail, and grabs him from the bar and raises him above her head.  It is not until a cop uses a riot gun to blow up electrical wires onto Nancy that she is subdued and returned to regular size, killing both herself and Harry in the process, but as an onlooker notes, she has finally obtained the one the she desired, the sole possession of her husband.

The main embrace of this movie is rather obvious in its clearly stated metaphor.  A woman grows to incomprehensible proportions and exacts her wishes and desires upon a man who has to a great degree done her wrong, particularly in his willful infidelity and indifference to destroying her body in the name of comfort, but considering that this portion of the narrative is so very brief, it is important to consider the larger commentaries of the film.  Firstly, it does ask questions about what role a woman has in deterring her husband from doing wrong by her, when she has little power within a societal or legal context.  Essentially, Nancy is able to bemoan the actions of her husband but cannot forbid him from doing so, similarly, the town seems to look down on Harry's relationship with Honey, yet they also know that it is out of their jurisdiction to correct his behavior and, purposefully, play ignorant to Nancy inquiries.  While the out-lash is blown to giant proportions, again, very literally, it is quite possible that the film connects a link between violent and single-minded outbursts, in this case the trampling of cars, power lines and buildings, to being tantamount to a fit of alcohol induced rage on the part of Nancy.  Nancy is indeed a lush, the film makes that quite clear, and, in fact, serves as the major factor into peoples refusal to believe her initial claims about seeing giants.   The problems faced by Nancy and Harry also find themselves comfortably entrenched within class privilege, their house is extravagant and Nancy possesses both fine jewelry and enough money to be a functioning alcoholic, therefore, they can also comfortably blow their issues out of the water, where as, others would be forced to internalize such issues, particularly women, whose reliance on men would require them to cower in fear and dependency, as opposed to blow up in revolution and independence.  Nancy is not the ideal figure for woman's radical stand against the patriarchy, yet considering the time period and her well-to-do status she is the realistic figure.  If it were not for the rather defeatist, and clear homage to King Kong, ending,  its frank consideration of privilege and societal navigation, and, ultimately, reconsideration of gender power dynamics would be damn near perfect.

Key Scene:  When Nancy finally breaks out of the house, her destruction of the domestic is so well realized and visually driven that it is hard not to revel in its occurrence.

This is an awesome b-movie that stands in considerable opposition to the male-oriented works of the same time, if only for the last ten minutes.  What makes it greater is that it has some moments of visual magic that are quite fresh to even by expanded cinematic palette.  I highly recommend grabbing a copy for your collection.

I Added Less Water Than Last Week: Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai Du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)

Mesmerizing, jarring, introspective, evasive and meticulous are words that could and probably have been used to describe Chantal Akerman's 1975 character study Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles.  The lengthy title lends itself to the rather lengthy film and while I will admit I found myself distracted throughout, it was not a result of the film being bad in the slightest, but more of my own personal state of mind and general tiredness.  I am quite aware, and have read some of the articles, about the divisive nature surrounding this film.  Many find it to be an excellent consideration of the female body as it occupies space in a very real and quantifiable way, while others find its deliberate staging within the domestic household and eventual twist to be somewhat exploitative and undermining of the feminist leanings it clearly takes.  One thing is for certain when you consider this masterpiece by Akerman, and that is its importance to cinema both in its style and in its subject manner.  Firstly, it is a film entirely dedicated to one individuals experience, and the camera rarely shies away from capturing even the most seemingly minute of details in the process.  Second, it chooses its subject to wholly be that of a woman, never allowing the males who occupy her space to completely take over the scene or the space which she has created.  It is as though Akerman has made a decided stand against all that is definably traditional in masculine filmmaking, while still managing to make a piece of engaging and entice film.  Every drawn out shot and deep focus encounter is structurally sound and eerily symmetrical, making the moments when the character leaves home that much more unusual.  The film is deserved of its continual emergence of lists of the most important films ever made and requires a heavy understanding of cinematic language and theory to truly engage within, yet, the images and story are so simplistically accessible that I would venture to say it simply playing at any major television retailer would prove to capture any passerby, it is simply that gripping and of its own existence that it is impossible to ignore.

The films intense focus is on that of Jeanne Dielman (Delphine Seyrig) whose name viewers can only draw from a letter she receives, and that the title of the film suggest it to be such. Jeanne is a single woman who lives alone, spending much of her day washing clothing, preparing food and drinking coffee.  She clearly focuses a heavy amount of her energy into preparing meals for her son who comes home in the evenings, only to completely avoid conversation with her in order to further reading his books and engage in his studies.  Of course, Jeanne plays ignorant to his indifference and attempts to create small talk with him about his aunt in Canada or questions about thoughts on a sweater she is knitting for him.  All seems mundane, if not a bit tragic, were it not for the revelation, at the opening of the film that Jeanne works as a prostitute during the day, seemingly servicing repeat customers ever week.  Yet, this very real occurrence factors in rather minimally to the film, as much more time seems to be spent on considering Jeanne as she is shown taking care of the baby of an unseen woman dropping off her child, or waiting in lack drawn out shots for the elevator to arrive and subsequently reach the floor on which she resides.  In fact, the most heavily focuses plot point of the narrative emerges when Jeanne is depicted trying to find a replacement button for a jacket she has received from her sister, whose living in Canada has meant a time difference in fashion trends and, therefore, a button that was neither in style or out of style within her Brussels neighborhood.  This event is followed by yet more monotony, particularly Jeanne engaging in a extended sequence of her slowly drinking coffee.  It is during one of her visits from a customer that her engagement in intercourse is finally shown, with a top down shot Jeanne's indifferent face turns frustrated as a man simply lays upon her.  After the act is over, it is then cut to her dressing in the mirror as the man lays satisfied with his act, only to be stabbed, inexplicably, by Jeanne in the throat.  His dead body writhes in pain and the film then goes to its closing shot of Jeanne simply sitting in the dark of her house, perhaps contemplating her actions or considering the future.

This has been aptly described as the "first masterpiece of the feminist history of cinema," and deservedly so because in its daunting runtime it manages to tackle essentially every major issue within the feminist movement of the era, mind you it is 1975, so issues of race and class certainly do not exist prominently within the feminist discourse.  It does take Laura Mulvey's consideration of the "male gaze," which has been discussed already this month and many times in the past on the blog, and completely reconsiders its existence.  The film, directly challenges its viewers, regardless of sex, to engage with the images in an unflinching manner, much like the way in which the events are depicted, never drawing any sort of pleasure or gratification from the experience, but instead a second by second cataloguing of Jeanne's experiences.  In fact, the one scene in which she is nude, is done in such a stark and sterile manner that even this arguably objectifying moment is anything but, and instead, draws upon reality and nothing in the realm of idealism.  The next major factor is the manner in which Akerman through her drawn out shots and stagnant deep-focus camera manages to show the layers of burden associated with domestic work, particularly in regards to its consumption of time and money.  Jeanne spends perhaps two thirds of the film preparing or cooking food and in many instances it is not solely for her enjoyment and her son, detached in his reading, is never appreciative of the efforts his mother has undertaken, but only seems to see her as a source of money, of which, he never inquires to how she obtained, surely his discovery would lead to condemnation.  Finally, if there is any question about the message of feminist empowerment and deconstruction of masculine privilege and space, the closing act by Jeanne ends such inquiries with its decided killing of the oppressive male figure, which surprisingly seems to be the least radical moment in the entire film.

Key Scene:  The coffee scene is particularly stagnant, yet mesmerizing, but the film runs so smoothly together that to pick anything out is quite impossible.

This is a major moment in the history of film and well worth owning, while I would hope that Criterion would release a bluray in the future, I think it unlikely, therefore, a DVD copy will have to suffice in the meanwhile.

Experiments In Film: Meshes In The Afternoon (1943)

I knew that for this month of women in film that I wanted to include at least one female experimental filmmaker, and while I certainly considered using Su Friedrich, amongst others, I decided it was perhaps best to show some more adoration for Maya Deren, whose experimental films proved quite important in my ultimate understanding of the power and possibility of cinema.  While I am still slightly more in favor of Stan Brakhage's work, with each revisitation of Deren's catalogue I begin to realize that she may well be the superior filmmaker, especially, if one is to consider her most well known piece Meshes in the Afternoon.  Created with her then husband Alex Hammind, the film is very much concerned with the image and spatial movement of woman, perhaps heavily influenced by Deren's own hand in the making, although much contention has arisen regarding who of the couple should receive credit.  Meshes of the Afternoon manages to exist within multiple styles of experimental filmmaking, whether it be they heavy influences of Dadaism and surrealism that allow for the film to create doppelgängers and a non-linear narrative clearly influenced by the unconscious, yet, it is also a film with evasive visual imagery relying of refractions of light and shadow that are reminiscent of Chris Marker's La Jetée.  It is quite fun to watch people attempt to break down the symbolism within something like Meshes of the Afternoon, because it is a film where every scene and image, does indeed appear to be heavily contemplative and a clear decision on the part of the directors.  Whether it be a key that turns into a knife or a shattered mirror, the film seems to layer its meaning within itself, suggesting an engagement with its textual commentary that is entirely contingent upon each viewers emotional and mental attitude upon initially engaging with the material.  It is really difficult not to leap at over explaining and, subsequently, over selling something like Meshes in the Afternoon, because it is both a constantly baffling film, as well as something that a viewer will find themselves completely engrossed with for the thirteen odd minutes of run time.

After claiming that deconstructing the film is overly exhausted and to some degree counterintuitive, I will, nonetheless, attempt to add some context to my interpretation of the the multilayered and expansive narrative that is Meshes of the Afternoon.  Yet, I will attempt to only pull what would be pertinent to a feminist analysis, considering the theme of this month on my blog, and even in doing so I am not claiming it to be a certainty in any reading, but merely one of a wide set of possibilities.  Firstly, the manner with which the unnamed main character, played, of course, by Deren herself, moves through the space of the film, often extending arms, from the top of the screen downward, or being half shot in a reflection of a window, could speak to issues of disembodiment that many women face, specifically after being victim to sexual violence, something the film indirectly suggests has occurred.  Secondly, the key, perhaps the films most recurring image, could mean a variety of things relating to femininity, whether it be her own identity, or more abstractly her "way of being female" a key that, not accidentally, can turn to a knife without a moments notice.  Of course, these previous mentioned images and stylistic choices are key, but the films most jarring and enigmatic image has to be the mirror-faced grim reaper who moves through the space of the film, much to the awareness of the the main woman in the film, but at the same time completely detached.  If it were not for the presence, of the mirror, I would simply call it a rather normal relation to sex and death that often emerges in surrealist filmmaking, think of the moth from Un Chien Andalou for a classic example.  Yet the mirror for a face on the figure of death, is perhaps in a Lacanian kind of way, a suggestion to the woman's own othering and lack, there for visualizing her silence and inevitable death as a result.  Of course, I have no clue what to make of the phone that the grim reaper carries, but it only drives me to visit this film many more times in the future.

To view Meshes in the Afternoon online, or to get more information about Maya Deren, click on either of the images below:

I Am An Old Woman My Dear, I Know My Sex: The Women (1939)

I have come away from George Cukor's 1939 melodrama The Women with complete uncertainty as to how I feel about it theoretically.  At once, it is both an essentialist mess that blames the women in the film for most of their problems, as well as a revolutionary bit of film in its all-woman cast, using male characters in a completely distancing, very much nonexistent, manner.  Regardless, of my feelings towards it as a piece of feminist cinema, I can praise it for its intense wit, brilliant acting and overall well-executed cinematic style.  George Cukor stands as one of the premier figures in the history of filmmaking and to witness him create a film based entirely around women and cleverly choosing not to incorporate a single male figure, even children, is quite profound and it is certainly worth noting that it is based of of a Clare Boothe play, also worth considering since Boothe was an essential figure in women's push towards a presence in the theater in the early twentieth century.  The film is narratively dense and I will openly admit that I am not entirely sure about everything that occurs within the film, aside from a heavy amount of off-screen infidelity and gossip.  The brilliance of Cukor's adaptation is the fact that he does not slow anything down for viewers, but instead; requires that they keep up with the rapid fire dialogue and insanity which ensues throughout the film, both within and outside of the domestic space.  Of course, the film is careful not to suggest that this particular vision of women's lives during the time is anything close to factually grounded, which is aided by the films magnificently lavish and inconceivably absurd sets, some that seem so theatrical that it would be possible to assume that one was watching a musical, especially, in the opening spa scenes.  It is as much an embracing of the melodramatic women's film so prevalent in Hollywood during the 1930's and 1940's just as it is also a rejection of the tradition, doings its best to exist within a meta world, even incorporating a technicolor scene that is assumedly part of the black and white narrative world, but could just as easily be a Buñuel dream sequence.  The Women is a fantastic bit of old school filmmaking that hits its stride early and never lets up, in fact, if it were not for its absolutely convoluted commentary on women's roles in society, it would be a certifiable masterpiece.

The Women, as the title suggests, focuses on a group of women who are navigating their middle-class spaces attempting to outdo one another with their various frivolities and conspicuous purchases, particularly Sylvia (Rosalind Russell) who is so preoccupied with her needing glasses and being extremely tall that she challenges such image issues within Lady Gaga-esque wardrobe choices, the eyeball blouse being a specific example.  Similarly, the other women within their group are intent on undermining one another when possible for what could either be a good time or earnest disdain.  However, one woman within the group, Mary (Norma Shearer) seems somewhat detached from it all looking upon the spectacle of the women's amusing diatribe with loving dismissal.  Yet, when it is revealed to her, through gossip of course, that her husband has been seeing another woman, Mary begins to reconsider her relationship to other women and to what degree she can trust them, especially with their willingness to reprimand Mary for something she has little to no control over.  Eventually the identity of Mary's husband's mistress is revealed to be a perfume girl named Crystal Allen (Joan Crawford) whose reputation for engaging in such relationships precedes her, making the act even worse in Mary's mind.  After an off-screen argument between Mary and her silent husband, the two decide to get a divorce, leading to Crystal moving into her house, while Mary seeks an escape to Reno, a choice that includes many of her other "friends" joining, as well as the introduction of a group of women divorcees who speak out adamantly against men and their misgivings.  It is during this excursion that Mary is informed about her husbands growing disdain for Crystal, as well as her daughters tenuous relationship with the indifferent and cantankerous woman.  Mary returns to the town to confront Crystal during a party, in which, she manages to make Crystal's interest move towards another man, only to become rejected.  In the end, Crystal loses her moments of power and strength and is shown almost breaking the fourth wall to extend loving arms to what one can assume to be her husband.

I mention my personal frustrations with this film, particularly, its ending that seems to suggest Mary returns to her husband out of love, completely overlooking his infidelity and lack of shared affection.  In fact, one could assume much of her decision is predicated upon assuring a safe future for her daughter who became a point of spite for Crystal.  It is the ending that complicates things considerably, not to mention the suggestion that much of the frustration and social alienation that the women go through is of their own accord and decision making, particularly their attempts to step upon one another for the latest fashions and affections.  It is certainly possible to read these as figurative acts of infidelity, but it would be a stretch compared to the very real acts occurring of screen.  I note these problems to turn around and praise this film for some brilliant elements.  Firstly, and perhaps most obviously, is the absolute refusal to include a male figure in the entire visual narrative, we are not shown a man, even in the closing moments of Mary's husband returning to her arms.  It is a decidedly feminine film with a exceptionally focused consideration of women's issues.  However, the film, and, assumedly the play, poke fun an women as being tied to the identities of their husbands, given that Mary and Sylvia are introduced as being Mrs. what ever their spouses names are, which is a direct reflection on the lack of societal navigation faced by women, who upon marriage were seen as a lesser extension of their husband.  The film also takes great care to consider the troubles faced by women who did get divorces during this era, in so much, as they were not allowed control or access to their own wills upon separation and had to rely on, often uncooperative ex-husbands.  The films most tragic downside is its racial and class issues, particularly towards domestic servants, but that critique is its own set of problems worth expanding upon at a later point.

Key Scene:  The technicolor fashion show is the obvious, but no less, best scene.

This film is very much multi-dimensional which cinematically works in its favor, while also being troublesome theoretically.  Yet, it is absolutely worth owning and revisiting many times.

I Help Girls Out: Vera Drake (2004)

Abortion is a very touchy issue as most can confess, when it is considered in the context of film it is often met with much trouble or confrontation.  In some cases it exists as a narrative connection between splintering opposition that creates a problematically complex story, as occurs in Tony Kaye's pseudo-documentary Lake of Fire, or serves a possible choice in the background of a film centering on birth issues, evident in both Juno and Knocked Up.  When a film does consider the act head on it is often met with much opposition or attempted quieting on the part of censors or individuals who think their conservative ideals should rule supreme on a society.  Fortunately, for this blogger, who is decidedly and adamantly pro-choice the presence of a film like Vera Drake allows for a very real consideration on the issues of abortion and gender politics, while also proving extremely watchable and socially prescient.  Vera Drake is neither an exploitative mess, like many other abortion themed films seem so intent on doing, nor is it entirely idealistic about its presence, it is a film very much intent on simply portraying the facts of abortion in mid-20th century Britain, an act that was done not out of a push towards moral degradation, but as a means to provide an affordable option to women who were still ignored heavily within the medical system, particularly if they were of a lower class and without the economic means to navigate healthy medical procedures.  Furthermore, while the film makes it quite clear that the act of procuring an abortion is directly experienced by the woman receiving said procedure, Mike Leigh's film depicts a very real extension of social condemnation to any persons involved in such an act.  Cinematically shot, and magnificently acted, Vera Drake manages to take a very touchy subject and strip it down to its factual situations, noting the points where even the most stalwart of upholders of law realize the grey area of such, then illegal, procedures, and how dangerous the act can be even in the most practiced of hands.  Abortion, in the filmic narrative of Vera Drake, is not a denied occurrence, but a very real fact of the times, one that is brought to the forefront and demanded to be considered beyonds its violent misconceptions.

Vera Drake follows the title character, played masterfully by Imelda Staunton, an aged woman whose life as a domestic caretaker helps bring money to her family.  Along with her husband George (Richard Graham) the couple is looking after their son Sid (Daniel Mays) who also makes money by working as a tailor, as well as their daughter Ethel (Alex Kelley) whose mannerisms suggest a very mild mental disorder.  Regardless of the fact that three of the family members are employed, the family still appears to be in considerable poverty, only worsened by the fact that Vera must also take care of her ailing mother and father who are essentially bedridden.  Yet, despite all these woes, the family seems particularly close, with the exception of a rather condemning sister-in-law.  Things even begin to look up when a young man named Reg (Eddie Marsan) takes a liking to Ethel, eventually proposing to her much to the excitement of the entire Drake family.  Yet, while the entirety of this is going on, Vera has been procuring free abortions to women around the city, seeing it as a means to help them in their most needy moments.  She does so quite elusively and appears to be quite successful, until one of her patients is admitted to the hospital with rather serious stomach pains, resulting from an issue in the operation.  This occurrence leads a doctor to inquire as to where the woman received the illegal abortion, eventually leading to Vera.  A set of detectives interrupt the Drake's in the middle of celebrating their daughter's engagement and take Vera in on charges of willfully harming an individual. In this moment, Vera's alternate life emerges, received with much confusion by the family, particularly Sid who thinks she has betrayed the family, although Reg, who up until this point has been rather ignorant, reminds them that being able to afford to take care of a child plays heavily into being able to love them.  During trial, the initial detectives do their best to let Vera off with a fine and minimum sentence, realizing that her intention was by no means to harm anyone, yet when it reaches a higher court the judge shows no pause in extending a heavy sentence to her, thus placing her in jail on a two year incarceration.  The closing scene, with a sense of poetic tragedy shows the family sitting in the dining room at a loss for what to do without the presence of Vera.

I state that this film does a lot for the manner in which one considers abortion in a social context.  Firstly, the problematic issue of medical costs and class access arise when one girl is shown attempting to discretely go through the proper channels to get a legal abortion, only to be told that she does not possess enough money, causing her to seek alternative methods to end the pregnancy, one that the narrative suggests was a result of rape.  This still holds true for abortion in a contemporary context, many women who attempt to obtain same and legal procedures, are either turned away due to lack of medical insurance or as a result of providers refusing to provide services due to ethical grounds.  As such alternative means to end pregnancies are sought and low costs without the assurance of absolute safety.  Of course, in The United States organizations such as Planned Parenthood offer services for individuals in need, yet this is always predicated on funding from the community, as the government fails to properly finance the services, again resting almost solely on conservative politicians refusing to aid persons in need.  Furthermore, the film is also careful to note the diversity of women who receive abortions, whether it be relatively well to do women hoping to discreetly rid themselves of an unwanted pregnancy, or a worn out mother of seven whose male figurehead is adamant not to allow for contraceptive use, even considering women of color, which is particularly fascinating given their particular otherness in fifties Britain.  This too reflects a contemporary understanding of abortion, an issue which many people assume happens only to lower class women of color.  In fact, the persons who obtain abortion are quite diverse, although statistics do suggests it is particularly prevalent in the previously mentioned group, it does extend well beyond this group.  Finally, the film asks viewers to consider whose ethically at fault her, reminding them that if Vera did not need to do this she certainly would not, but she sees it as a means to help those who cannot afford medical care, as opposed to forcing them to carry to term a child that will in no way be taken care of with any degree of decency.  Vera Drake paints a very real picture of issues in abortion, masked cleverly in a seemingly dated period piece, not as a means of distancing the subject, but as a clever reflection on its still pertinent problems.

Key Scene:  The initial interrogation by the police at Vera's home may well be one of the greatest acted moments in contemporary film and the contemplative cinematography only adds to its effectiveness.

As it stands there is no bluray of this movie, which is a shame because it is gorgeous.  Fortunately, the DVD is super cheap and still looks great.  Vera Drake is a definite must-own, unless of course you are a conservative pro-lifer, but if that is the case you probably hate good film anyways.

I May Have Lost My Heart, But Not My Self Control: Emma (1996)

It should have come to no surprise to me that in trying to include a particularly diverse set of films for my month of women in film that I would run into some less than stellar movies.  I had high hopes for Emma considering that it possesses a ton of actors for whom I think highly of, not to mention that it fancied itself, and even claims to exist within the same vein as Clueless, a film I caught up with last year to much elation.  While Emma is certainly a film that exists within the framework of satire, it is hardly on the same level as Amy Heckerling's masterpiece.  Of course, both are based off of the same Jane Austen novel, yet where Heckerling's film fully commits to the absurdity of the narrative, particularly its being situated within the madness of nineties valley speak, Douglas McGrath seems far too concerned with keeping some sort of artistic distance to truly do the narrative justice.  It appears that, despite all the clear mocking of gender divides and marital expectations which exist within the narrative, and to some degree the original text, Emma, the film, fails in its desire to necessarily exist within the romantic side of a romantic comedy.  This is all not to suggest that Emma is a terrible movie, this is far from the case, but simply adapting a novel of the same name, does not automatically place you on the same level as the magnificent satire that is Clueless.  I understand very much that this intends to be a period piece and desires to adhere to the stylistic limitations of the era, not to mention the social mores, but McGrath clearly takes liberties in making Emma, as a character, seem willfully ignorant and purposefully destructive of those around her, all in some blind ambition to prove that she excels at her rather arbitrarily chosen field of matchmaker, for which she holds mild success.  Nothing screams empowerment towards the female figure put on display and possessing of the narratives title and I am by no means suggesting that Jane Austen was the most ideal of feminist icons, yet, this film was made right on the coattails of Clueless, yet fails so desperately to find a fresh and realized voice in relation to its inspiration.  Tragically, Emma is a film that suffers the woe of attempting to cash in on the success of a previous film (think about all the terrible quirky films that emerged post Napoleon Dynamite) and the real shame lies in the fact that it could have been so much more.

Emma, as the title, and the clear reference to Jane Austen's novel suggests, centers on the life of Emma (Gwyneth Paltrow) a decidedly optimistic and assuredly aware young woman who fancies herself an expert matchmaker and knower of all things romantic.  Coming fresh off the success of a courtship she helped implement, she considers herself prepared to create another success story with the local town vicar Mr. Elton (Alan Cummings) and Harriet Smith (Toni Collette) a somewhat mousy, yet attractive woman with whom Emma is a good friend.  However, even with Emma's rather blatant direction, it is discovered that Harriet finds herself attracted to a town farmer named Robert Martin (Edward Woodall) to which Emma contests, thinking it is societal suicide on the part of Harriet.  Fully aware of her problematic meddling, Emma's family friend George Knightley (Jeremy Northam) attempts to dissuade her actions and when he realizes that Emma willfully ignores his suggests, notes that Mr. Elton has had his eyes on a woman from a family just outside of town, leaving Harriet to make a fool of herself in her attempts to attract the vicar.  Into the picture enters the young man named Frank Churchill (Ewan McGregor) much to the adoring eyes of Emma who becomes infatuated with his suave attitude and genteel charms, yet when Frank takes a liking to another woman, Emma's already crumbling assumptions of matchmaking worsen considerably.  Things become romantically intensified between Emma and George, realizing that they see each other more as platonic friends and after a respite on the part of George after a falling out between the two, Emma finds herself missing his presence considerably.  The two agree to marry, much to the initial rage of Harriet who eventually works things out with Mr. Martin and each couple is happily married by the films closing.

The film suffers from its confusion about whether it wants to exude modernity or embrace the traditions of the period in which it is set.  Of course, this is not entirely McGrath's fault as he had similar ideas to that of Clueless, but was simply late to the game, yet the execution of the film is problematic.  As it stands, Emma is decidedly a film about logical men navigating the spaces of ill-conceived plots on the part of desirous women, particularly Emma who seems to think herself of creating love in even the unlikeliest of places.  While she claims at multiple points to be concerned with notions logical behavior, her concerns seem far more tied to economic safety and advancement than anything that could be defined as logical.  In fact, she deals with situations illogically for the most part, avoiding contact and forcing men tied to religious devotions into the marriage pool.  The film seems, initially, to be doing so with some sense of irony which should allow viewers to distance themselves from Emma and critique her actions, yet when viewers are asked at points to empathize with her and feel bad for her situation, it comes to the forefront that she is intended to be a likeable protagonist, and a problematic one at that.  I hate to keep drawing comparisons to the better Clueless, but in that film Silverstone's character is detached from the situation and capable of commenting on all the terribleness existing within her life and interactions, where as Paltrow's Emma is as wide-eyed and ignorant about her involvement in her own oppression and terrible life choices as she is about her ability to create love.  Emma wants to be really hip and cool in what it is trying to say, unfortunately, it never achieves the success its predecessors filmically and textually managed to do so.

Key Scene:  I don't know, I guess the dancing is nice...

This is an outright pass for me, I cannot think of any legitimate reason why you should feel obliged to check it out yourself.

Now That's An Oogie Mess: Misery (1990)

I am really having a lot of fun exploring where the category of "women in film" has taken me and I am only six days into this marathon, hopefully, this time around I can have a sort of reflection on the last day, something I had hoped to do with the Halloween month, but failed to do when caught up with some school priorities.  The next stop on my unplanned list brought me to a Stephen King adaptation, something I have blogged about before with the surprisingly watchable The Mist.  However, The Mist was a film I heard about within film critic circles and from various film based podcasts, as opposed to Misery which had a reputation that more than preceded itself, due almost entirely to a scene involving James Caan's ankles and a sledgehammer.  I say it has a reputation for this alone, and it is somewhat of a shame, because Kathy Bates is a revelation in this film, it is one thing to play a crazy woman who entraps an author in her house to write texts, however, to add layers of delusion and religious based madness, is a whole other thing.  I do not believe that I have seen any of the other Oscar nominated performances from that year, and, to be honest, it really does not matter, since it clearly deserved to go to Bates.  I was glad to catch up with this role, because Kathy Bates has come to the point in her career, that she is essentially playing roles predicated upon her being Kathy Bates, her recent cameos on The Office come to mind immediately.  Yet, in 1990 when this film was initially released she was still establishing herself as a well-known and respected actor and was still years away from her empowering role in the overtly problematic, but, nonetheless, cinematic Titanic.  It is one thing to act along side Richard Farnsworth and James Caan, but is even more a feat when you act circles around them in the process.  Of course, considering that it is being reviewed now within the framework of women in film, the problems the narrative creates relating to a rhetoric of hysteria and women's outlets of desire must be acknowledged, not to mention the very self-engratiating manner with which Stephen King demands his readers, in this case viewers, comprehend the woes of writing creatively.

Misery focuses on well-established author Paul Sheldon (James Caan) who has recently finished a text in his prolific Misery series, focusing on a woman and her experience in 19th century America.  Concerned with being pigeon-holed by this particular sort of text, Sheldon decides to write a book focusing on the experiences of his childhood in New York, a far cry from his previous work.  Although his subject has changed, his methodology has not, taking up shelter in a remote lodge in Colorado until he completes his text, enjoying one cigarette and one glass of Don Perignon after.  Unfortunately, he complete his task in the dead of winter and must travel in a heavy snow storm to return home.  On his trip he crashes on a snow bank, presumably left for dead to the elements.  Sheldon, however, is rescued by Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bates) a local nurse, with excellent hospice care, who openly admits to being Sheldon's "number one fan" a statement she validates by quoting passages directly and debating the most minor of details with Sheldon.  It appears as though Annie has the best of intentions, yet when she reads Sheldon's new work she is disgusted by its foul language and lack of dignity in relation to the Misery series, only to be pushed over the edge when she purchases the final installment of the Misery series to discover that the protagonist she has invested much time into has been killed off by Sheldon.  At this point, Sheldon realizes that Annie has been quite deceptive about her contact with the community and their being made aware of his forced inhabitation in her home, even leading to a concern by the local sheriff Buster (Richard Farnsworth).  Annie, however, in her deep web of delusion manages to plan far ahead of any escape Sheldon could hope to make, going so far as to infamously "hobble" him into staying.  Yet, Sheldon realizes that he can dangle the final chapters of his "revised" Misery book, in order, to play at Annie's affections, a methodology that allows him to attack her and eventually kill her.  He returns to New York, now crippled, and finds his texts receiving critical praise, although he is completely dismissive of the possibility of recounting his experiences of entrapment, especially since he finds himself still paranoid about seeing Annie even in high-scale dining establishments.

The film is excellent and certainly is a thrill to watch and it is impossible to deny the horrific nature of a delusional woman entrapping an author as a result of a devilish cocktail of delusion and fandom.  However, it cannot be overlooked that the film problematizes the image of the single woman living alone, something which is often depicted problematically in an urban setting, and only worsened by the secluded rural setting.  While one could certainly glean moments of sympathy from this film which are directed towards Annie, it is clear that she is a villain and somewhat less clear, but, nonetheless, suggested that it is a result of her feminine instability.  Her fandom, within the context of the film, is clearly rooted in her loss of a husband, assumedly to infidelity.  It is not necessarily her adoration of Sheldon, so much as her love of the figure and idea of Misery, an independent and successful, all be it fictional, woman.  The film appears far too concerned with noticing how particularly "feminine" her madness is, constantly tying her break downs and mental issues to the domestic space, even though her large, domineering nature visually contradicts the demure assumptions about domesticity and femininity.  One also cannot help but consider this film as a text about the problem of acknowledging non-physical disability, especially since viewers are provided with Sheldon's character as an example of physical disability, therefore, deserved of outright pity.  To borrow from feminist disability theorist Susan Wendell, Annie also suffers from a disability, but because it is mental and not clearly quantitative, aside from her violent outbursts, society, or in the case of this film viewers, is unwilling to accept it as a serious problem or issue to acknowledge within a social conversation.  Annie is certainly a demented character and is to be reprimanded for trapping a person against his will, yet the film fails to really consider the emotional distresses faced by her years before that may have been overlooked because of their decidedly non-physical elements.

Key Scene: As hyped as it is and well known, there is no denying the cinematic intensity of the "hobbling" scene.

This is a solid film that I own on DVD, however, it is more than acceptable to check out on Neflix, where it is currently Watch Instantly.

I Want My First Time To Be With Someone I Don't Love: Fat Girl (2001)

I was fully aware that by focusing on women in film for the entire month of March that not every single film I encountered would exist within the realm of the uplifting narrative, in fact, I will be admittedly more surprised to find films that are outright positive when handling such subject matter, especially considering the very nature of oppression and othering that exists within cinema concerning women and/or the female body.  However, Fat Girl takes intensity to another level.  I had been warned by a friend years ago about Fat Girl being a "brutal" film, much in the same way that say, Steve McQueen's Hunger is a brutal film, or Michael Haneke's...well pretty much anything is brutal.  That is to say that these works exist not to allow a viewer any sort of relational comfort or cinematic tradition to cling onto throughout the narrative.  Fat Girl, like the other films noted, exists to provoke, enrage and question all who view it, right down to the very nature with which one expects actions to occur within cinema, but, perhaps most importantly, to relate and manage the assumptions about what bodies are appropriate for occupying the spaces of film.  Fat Girl makes no apologies about its context and commentaries, absolutely, demanding viewers to accept that nothing shown is meant to be heartfelt or endearing, but instead blatantly terrible and factually unfortunate.  Clocking in at just over 80 minutes, to call this film a slow burn would be to overlook the very precise provocative scenes within the film, each intended to deconstruct romantic traditionalism, particularly one scene which shot with a stagnant camera comprises roughly a fourth of the considerably brief film.  It is as though the moment is a purposeful homage to Godard's Breathless, in which, gender politics unfold over a similarly lengthy bedroom scene, yet, in the hands of shock director Catherine Breillat, the scene does not possess even an ounce of the possible gender subversion of the French New Wave classic, instead it affirms all the truths and tragedies that manage to prove the completely illogical ideology of some theorists that society exists in a world where feminist discourse and politics are redundant and irrelevant, as Fat Girl shows, this is decidedly and absolutely not the case.

Fat Girl, titled A ma souer!, or To My Sister! in its original French translation, focuses on the experiences of two young, relatively well-to-do children on vacation to the French seaside.  Anaïs Pingot (Anaïs Reboux) is a obese young girl of twelve who is clearly the proverbial black sheep within her family, compared to her ethereal and sprite-like sister of fifteen Elena (Roxane Mesquida).  Realizing that Anaïs rather flippant attitude and less fortunate looks will cause individuals to take pause when approaching Elena, the parents demand that they always spend time together, mostly as a ruse to assure that Elena, whose promiscuity is openly acknowledged, avoids any engagements that might tarnish their family name.  Elena, of course, takes this assumption and runs with it, simply ignoring the presence of Anaïs when possible, even going so far as to push her out of the way when she is approached by an Italian tourist named Fernando (Libero De Rienzo), instead; swooping in to become the object of his affection.  A scene the displays Anaïs moving back and forth between the swimming pool pretending two polls are different lovers that she is entangled with in a fiery affair.  This unusual scene is followed by Elena and Anaïs getting ready for bed, where Elena explains that no matter what happens that night, she must ignore it and be quiet so much so, that when Fernando shows up attempting to have intercourse with Elena, only succeeding in anal sex, Anaïs is forced to deal with the very loud aftermath of the acts, condemning them both the following morning.  Yet, given the guidelines of their parents, the two must hangout together, this time with the presence of Fernando who is still attempting to win over Elena.  While Anaïs lays on the beach defeated, Fernando proposes to Elena, which, in turn, causes her to agree to having intercourse with him, an act that is shot from an angle to display Anaïs crying the entire time. Fernando's mother then comes to the Pingot beach house demanding that Elena return a valuable ring, which leads to a revelation about what has occurred between her and Fernando.  Frustrated the girls mother demands that they return home, even if it means a non-stop drive on a deathly busy and occupied French highway.  Exhausted their mother decides to pull into a rest stop, leading to the, extremely intense, closing sequence of the film, that defies logic, but, ultimately, undermines the larger filmic metaphor.

I was surprised to find out that a heavy amount of male support has been directed towards this film, particularly from a sect of French male filmmakers known in the past for their misogyny.  A heavy amount of the disdain is a result of issues with the manner in which Anaïs affirms an event the ends the film, a rape to be specific and spoil the ending, some suggest it results in a degree of victim blaming, yet I cannot help but think that it speaks to the larger issue of character ignoring narratively.  The title Fat Girl, as Breillat suggests in an essay that came along with the Criterion release, was her original choice and only changed it, in order, to help actress Anaïs Reboux be at ease with exactly why she was cast in her role.  The fact that Anaïs speaks out at the end seems heavily a call to attention and her denial is a larger metaphor for the denial that is very much placed of non-traditional bodies within media.  It is simple to assume that nothing happened to her, because society says she does not fit the traditional norms of beauty, therefore, is not the normal victim within the context of such a rhetoric, one would be quicker to assume that such actions would happen to Elena than to Anaïs.  Of course, since the final moment is necessarily and inextricably tied to sex, viewers are left to take Anaïs word on the entire event, as the way in which acts are shot, we are only shown faces.  It is possible that given the lies she heard earlier spouted by the sex-craving Fernando that she may not have indeed believed herself to be a victim of certain sexual violence.  Since she only knows sex as defined by films and by the lies spouted by sex crazed teens she may have been raped in a non-vaginal manner, still rape, but not within the limited vocabulary of Anaïs young mind.  It is audacious to think that a misogynistic group would embrace such a film, because it is very much about the very real woes and problems of male based oppression emotionally, mentally and especially physically.  Like the small family car weaving through the unrelenting trucks on the highway, Anaïs, and to some degree Elena, find themselves navigating a treacherous, unyielding world of larger, dangerously oppressive objects.

Key Scene:  While the film is all visually intense, the car ride is so heightened in tension that when it ends you assume the worst to be over, however, it is far from the case.

This is a visually audacious film that cannot really be explained verbally, what I can say, however, is that it is deserved of a bluray purchase without hesitation.